


The Bodies

by Dryad



Series: The Shadows; Where Softly Steps the Light [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 19th Century America, AU, Casefiles, Gen, NC17, Reeaaalllly slow, Slow Burn, children in peril, graphic depictions of death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-10 22:57:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11701611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: A casefile a day keeps the doctor oh wait...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Super rough edit!!
> 
> Like, for real. I'll be back to clean it up soon-ish.

Just outside the door, two horses were being held by a boy who kept eyeing them nervously. 

John slowed at the sight of them. "I thought we were going to the morgue?"

Lestrade shook his head, seeming to delight in John's confusion. "No," he said, tossing a coin the boy's way with one hand, gathering the dropped reins to his horse with the other. "We've a situation in Somerville I need you to take a look at."

John sighed. The horse was hardly tall, but since his injury he found riding made his hip and thigh ache atrociously. He would be all but useless when he returned, whenever that might be. It was a close thing, his leg threatening to buckle while he got his foot into the stirrup, but he managed to swing up a moment later. His horse was a fine, sturdy and steady beast who took his awkwardness in stride. Which was more than he could say for Lestrade's concerned sidelong glance. "Let's go."

The house Lestrade brought him to was plain, with weathered shingle siding and three windows to the front overlooking the sea. It stood by itself, some distance from the village, proud in its isolation. A dead dog lay just off the path, its white coat saturated with old blood from the spear that had taken it in the chest. John frowned - he never had been able to stand the sight of animals in distress, even old dead distress. The animal had clearly been murdered, and who would have just the one dog in such a place as this?

The breeze changed and both horses shied, John's wheeling back on its hind legs, turning the way they came before he could get it under control.

Inside, the house was clean, if a bit bare of amenities. It smelled of roasted meat and something else, something familiar…but what?

Lestrade led him down a short hall, up a single flight of stairs, down another short hall, then looked into an open doorway, gestured for John to go in first.

John turned the corner and stopped. He stared at the blackened lump on the floor, then quickly glanced around the room. It was a corner room with three windows, one of either side of the bed to his left, the third on the far wall, next to another door. On the left was a fireplace, coals and half a log still burning, keeping the room pleasantly warm. Everything was neat and tidy and horribly out of place as he returned his attention to the reason why Lestrade had brought him in.

The only way John knew it was a woman was from the clothing she wore; at least, what was not burned away. She lay on the floor, on her side, facing them. Her clothing was burned away from knee to the top of her scalp, leaving only two inch-wide laces to show she had been wearing a housecap. Her teeth showed through the grimace of he heavily charred face, as did her jawbone and parts of her skull. Below the waist jutted the cradle of one hip bone and the ball and socket therein, plus the top of her thigh Her feet were bare of both shoe and stocking, her ankles just showing from underneath her white petticoats and black skirt. 

His stomach suddenly turned, and the smell - he finally remembered: the weather had been sultry, the air humid - the drone of the flies - he wavered on his feet a little.

"Tell me what you see," asked Lestrade, touching John's shoulder. Grounding him.

"Um," he cleared his throat, looked around the room once again. "Nothing out of the ordinary apart from the body. The bed is undisturbed, the trunk is closed. I presume you checked any closets?"

Lestrade nodded. "Yeah."

Hmm. John saw no burn marks anywhere. Even the bedding, though covered with a layer of soot, was clean when he turned over the pillow. The ceiling was smudged, as could only be expected. The body itself was surrounded by a dark stain of grease, but the floor boards were barely scorched. Awkwardly getting to his knees, John peered at the woman's skull, grateful the hair had been burned away. Peeling back the scalp had been one of his least favorite parts of medical school. It was like stripping back a person's humanity. Which, in retrospect, he supposed was the point. In any case, he saw no immediate starring or fracturing of the skull. Odd. Unlikely to have been cracked across the head with, say, a log. 

The arms were missing, probably burned away with the rest of the torso. From his experience in India, he knew there were probably fragments of bone in amongst the ash.

"Well?"

John got back to his feet, nodded. "The pattern of burning is odd, her thighs should have burned as well - " at Lestrade's grimace, John shrugged and said, "Thighs and torsos contain the most body fat. Oh, like this."

Taking the oil lamp from the window sill, John turned the wick handle up and down. "See, the wick absorbs the oil and burns slowly. The fat of the human body is the oil, the clothing the wick. Why the body and clothing were not completely burned...it's odd. Not normal."

"All right, if she wasn't burned to death, how did she die?"

"Well," answered John, staring at the body. "Oil and coal provided the original spark, you can tell by the smell. No one would stand still for such a thing, so she must have died before the fire was set. As to how she was killed...I don't think it was strangulation, though I'll have to be present at the autopsy to be sure," John rubbed below his Adam's Apple. "There's a little bone in the throat that gets broken when a person is strangled or hung. Saw a lot of that in India. Thuggee cult," he added, at Lestrade's look of incomprehension. "Villains who viewed strangulation and robbery as a way of worshiping their gods."

"Lovely," murmured Lestrade. "We can't assume she wasn't strangled, but what about a stabbing? A beating?"

John shrugged. "Could have been either, we just don't know and furthermore, we'll never find out. There's too little of the body remaining to tell. She could have been poisoned, which would explain why she's on the floor and not the bed, and if she was stabbed, the killer has done a remarkable job of cleaning up after himself. There's no blood dripping on the floor or the ceiling or the walls. In short, I'm at a complete and utter loss. All I do know is that this woman died, probably here in this room. I suppose she could have been poisoned."

"According to the family, they shared a meal last night of eggs and potatoes and bread, apple compote and butter cookies for afters.

John raised an eyebrow. "Cookies?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Shut up. Anyway, they all ate the same meal, read from the bible, and then dispersed to their bedrooms. In the morning, when the missus rose and found the fire cold, she got angry and went upstairs to get the old mother up, and discovered her on the floor."

John wrinkled his nose. "They didn't smell anything? Hear anything?"

Lestrade snorted. "Not a thing, apparently."

"Sorry," John said. "Wish I could have been more helpful."

"Me too," Lestrade put his hands on his hips. "Basically we have a dead, burned woman, and we have no idea who killed her or how she was killed. Captain's gonna love this."

"More or less. I can rule out a few more things. You'll have to be careful moving the body. She might have been shot - I know, I know, it's unlikely given what you just told me, but there's always a chance. Besides, if one of the family did it, it could be that the other members of the family are keeping quiet for one reason or another."

"True enough. Yeah, all right. Thanks for your time," said Lestrade, a moment later shouting over his shoulder, "Lads!"

John moved out of the way, then stepped closer to Lestrade and said, sotto voce, "Are you sure Anderson's up to the task?"

Lestrade shot him a look. "He's what I've got to work with..." 

Exactly. John was on the verge of offering his services when Lestrade clapped one hand to his brow.

"Good g-d, I'm being an idiot! Boys, stop what you're doing! Benny, go send a runner to Mrs. Wallace's, Newbury Street. I want Mr. Holmes at the station at three. Say Lestrade wants him for a case."

"Could I sit in?" 

"Of course. You can tell him what you know."

John left Lestrade and his boys to it. Heaving himself back into the saddle, he returned home for a bite to eat and to write some letters. One to Dr. Smythe, another to Dr. Thomas, thanking them for their help with all of his recent emergencies, and inviting them to supper in the coming week. In fact, he would invite Holmes and Lestrade as well. Or should he...maybe not. Holmes might not enjoy the medical talk, nor Lestrade. Hmm. Perhaps tea was a better option. Yes...that way no one would go to bed angry. Because John had a feeling Holmes might arouse strong passions in those not accustomed to him.

After a moment he laid his pen down and sat back in the chair. Holmes certainly was a character. Harriet was not fond of him, no, and though Clara had liked him well enough at first, she too was a little distant. He wished he understood why. That would require asking, however, and he had absolutely no intention of doing that; he could already hear the earful Harriet would no doubt give him. Like Lestrade, Holmes was a bit of home. Familiar in unexpected ways. 

With a frown at the direction of his own thoughts - he was _not_ missing England, he was _not_ \- he signed and sealed both letters to his fellow doctors and put them on the tray in the hallway for such purposes. Glancing out the window to see if the weather had changed, and of course, spring in New England, so it was snowing, he slipped on his thick overcoat and left the house. G-d, what was wrong with him these days? There were times when he missed Mary so fiercely he felt physical pain, and other times...maybe this was normal. Maybe everyone was right and he was a fool for loving a dead woman to the expense of all else. Maybe he should return to England and face how it made him feel. Face the curious questions, the hateful comments, the sly looks and careless whispers. Oh, he had had enough of that the first time, it had been the cherry on the top of the cake upon receiving Harriet's offer. 

Now, see, there he went again, falling into the trap of melancholy when all he meant to do was just, not that. Shaking his head at his own stupidity, John made a pointed attempt to distract himself by looking at his fellow passersby. All too soon, however, he grew bored, and then he simply hastened along the street, walking so quickly he nearly broke into a sweat.

~*~

John had no idea why Lestrade wanted him at the house. The scene was horrific; a husband and wife bludgeoned to death in their bed, their eldest daughter missing, their youngest children left alone in the house of horror as the maidservant had gone off on an assignation with the married farmhand. The bed was so soaked with blood it had puddled on the floor beneath, and the smell; John was glad he was used to the battlefield. Which was a terrible thing to think, and yet. Judging by the retching he could hear in the hallway beyond, few here had ever realized just how much blood the human body held.

"What do you think?"

John glanced at Lestrade. "I don't know why you want me here, there's nothing I can do to help these people."

Lestrade quirked an eyebrow, jerked his head towards the hallway. "Holmes wanted you here."

"Did he? Why?"

"Go and ask him yourself."

He would do just that.

Holmes was in the front of the house, examining the water trough. He looked up, looked down, slowly tracked something invisible across the yard towards the barn. By the time John caught up, Holmes had opened the gate and disappeared inside the barn. 

The barn was big enough for the animals, hay, grain storage, and a peculiar kind of grass mower. Instead of tines, however, there was a giant roller of some sort attached to the rear.

"Ah, Watson, come look at this."

Holmes was peering at an axe hanging on the wall on two nails. The thing was ancient, pitted with rust and clearly not in any current use. "What? It's an axe."

"Yes, but the murderer didn't use it."

"Sorry?"

Holmes grinned. "The murderer didn't use it, even though it's an obvious implement. Why not?"

John frowned. "Because they didn't know it was in here?"

"No, they knew it was here, they needed something else that could be easily rid of. Come, let's get back to Lestrade."

So why were they in the barn, then? Back inside the house, Lestrade was irritated by Holmes's announcement.

"Who and why, Holmes, that's why I called you in," he said, gesturing at the bloody bed, the bodies covered by a newly stained sheet.

"Find the eldest son. He's been having relations with the maidservant. They planned to murder his parents, get married, and take over the household. She, however, has been sleeping with the farm hand in the hopes of an alibi. Mark my words, Lestrade, she's just as culpable as he is."

"And how did he kill them?" asked John. "You said it wasn't the axe."

Holmes looked smug. "Rake out the fire. The log at the back hasn't yet caught. I smelled burnt blood on my approach to the house."

"That's brilliant!" John said, smiling.

One corner of Holmes's mouth curled up.

As they walked away, leaving Lestrade to his work, John had to know how Holmes had done it. "You got all of that from smelling blood on smoke? How does that even work?"

John was not particularly convinced of this. A second later he gagged, bent over to let a stream of bile and the remains of his breakfast out of his mouth. He spat acidic saliva onto the street with a groan, wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "Guh, sorry, sorry."

Holmes was holding out a flask when John finally straightened. He took the tot gratefully and tossed it back without smelling it first. He swallowed, immediately regretting the action for fear of his stomach rebelling, then looked at Holmes with surprise as the flavour hit him. "What was the hell was that?"

"An herbal concoction of my own devising. The ingredients are unimportant."

John licked his lips, trying to figure it out. Cardamom, clove, something very green, he had no idea what, a hint of grapevine. A flash of heat down his throat in addition to a coolness similar to menthol, but not menthol at all. A touch of alcohol, presumably the base of the tincture or wine or whatever it was that had momentarily taken his mind off of unexpectedly vomiting in the street. "That's...you could make a fortune selling that as a hangover cure."

"As a doctor, you should know there is no such thing besides temperance."

"Still...feel free to pass a bottle of it on to me," John said, handing over the tiny cup. "For my personal use, of course."

Holmes looked amused. "Of course."

John brushed a hand over his clothing to make sure no flecks of vomit remained. "Sorry about that, I don't know what happened."

"Undoubtedly you were unintentionally brought to your past by the smell of the smoke and the state of the bodies."

"I'm not unused to death, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes side-eyed him. "Your wife.'

John halted. "My wife has nothing to do with this."

Holmes spun around and stalked in front of John. "She's the reason you're in America. She's the reason you were just sick in the street. She's the reason you can't be in India and ultimately the reason you're still alive."

The roiling in John's stomach returned, though he was sure his brief illness had passed. "How...how?"

"Observation, Dr. Watson, merely observation. Now come, let us get some coffee and discuss our next move."

Next move?

"Yes, I have business to attend to in the country and you are the person to help me do it. Now come, let us get some coffee and discuss our next move."

 

~*~

As a doctor, John had been in gang territory before. He was used to the sidelong glances, the open stares, the men following him from one territory to another, making sure he knew he was welcome only for so long as he was treating a certain person or people. Harriet was after him to stop going, but what could he do? He was a doctor; people needed his services, no matter who he was. After word had gotten out about Clemmie and Perrine, well, many parents wanted his aid in helping their children. It wasn't that he had ignored ill children in the past, it was that they weren't his primary concern. His priority had been soldiers, still would be if it were allowed. 

He did what he could, and for payment received whatever coin desperate parents could scrape up. More often, things appeared in the house without reason. Jingle would come to him and show him the bushel of dried beans, the basket of cranberries, the pie or preserves or bread. More often it was a scrap of lace or a bundle of clean cloths to be used as bandages. He was helpless to halt the tide of things he had little use for, and would never have said anything to stop it. People had their pride, and if they had no coin, they wanted to pay for services rendered no matter what, for which he could hardly begrudge them. He wished he could turn their efforts to other means, say, sending their children to school, or fixing their homes to be more habitable, but the truth was that there was only so much money to go around, only so many job, only so much housing. He was only one man, and he could only do what he could for so many. Charity in all its forms meant he could pass on a good deal of it to Dr. Smythe and Dr. Thomas, or gave them to Harriet to dispense through the Anti-Slavery ladies group she and Clara attended every week. Some of the toys he gave to Hartwell and Eliza, once he had looked them over, of course.

And so it was with great surprise that one day, May Golightly whispered to him over her sick child's cot that he had to be careful with whom he kept company. She nervously eyed her husband,who was playing cards with two other men at the table near the fire.

"That gent, Holmes, you be careful with him, awright?"

John looked up from where he was feeling her son's sweating forehead. "I think the fever's broken, now. He should be fine."

"Leroy don't like your man. He's been taking to O'Malley, and O'Malley's been talking to the Bay Boys. O'Malley's got friends new over from Ireland, folks who know your Holmes, and they're going to get him. You get away from him, Dr. Watson. He ain't good for your health."

"I'll take that under advisement," John wiped his hand on a dry corner of bedsheet. He put his thermometer and stethoscope into his bag, wondered on the odds of making it out of the neighborhood without having to resort to violence. "Now, you're to call on me at any time if he gets any worse."

She nodded, wringing her hands in her apron as she followed him to the door. Putting on his overcoat and hat under everyone's scrutiny was not his favorite part of any visit. One would think he would be used to it by now, yet outside of a battlefield he felt ridiculously self conscious. 

"Good evening," he said, and went out into the depths of the snow still falling from the sky. Keeping his walking stick at the ready, John took a firm grip on his bag and strode down the street without looking back. The way was difficult, as the street was heavily congested with snow that had yet to be cleared or packed down. The night was beautiful, even here in this part of Boston, silent save for his labored breaths and the squeak of his boots in the snow. He made his way steadily back to Beacon Hill, growing colder in the face of the icy breeze swirling off the harbour. One second he had snow in his face, the next his vision was clear to a few feet ahead. There was little foot traffic, and only two cabs passed him by, their lamps unlit. Even they were not foolish enough to stay out in search of passengers, not on this night.

By the time John closed the door, he was trembling with cold and exhaustion. Clara and Harriet appeared before John had a chance to do more than set down his bag.

Clara took his hand and began to pull off his glove. "Oh my g-d, we were frightened you would be stuck out there!" 

"John, you mustn't go out again tonight, not even if the Pope himself needed you," added Harriet, brushing his hat free of snow. "Jingle! A hot cider, if you please!"

"I'm all right," he said, struggling to stay upright, pulled and pushed between the two of them. "Really, I'm fine."

"You're not!" snapped Harriet, glaring at him. "If you could see yourself right now, you would know exactly what I mean! Now stop being an idiot."

Clara flashed him a wide-eyed, amused glance, but she didn't stop unbuttoning his coat.

Between the two of them he was divested of his outerwear and boots, his hands were rubbed and warmed, his bag taken into his office. Then he was brought into the parlour and seated next to the fireplace, for which he was grateful. Faced with its heat, he had a full body shiver and moved as close to it as he could, nearly slipping off his chair in the process.

"There you are," Harriet muttered, and then there was a mug of steaming cider in front of John.

He took it gratefully and nearly moaned from the spicy sweetness of the first sip. "Thank you, Jingle," he said. A faint 'you're welcome' came back before the parlour door was firmly closed behind her, leaving John to face Clara and Harriet on his own.

John sat and slowly warmed, an occasional shiver racking his entire body. "It's funny, isn't it, how much colder Boston is than London?"

Clara shook her head as she sat on the sofa. "You just missed the worst winter in twenty years. Snow drifts ten feet high, the streets virtually impassable, people even had to climb out of second storey windows just to shovel their way to the front door!"

"Do you remember that awful story about the farmer?" Harriet asked Clara, before turning to John. "This was up New Hampshire way. A farmer went out to feed the cows in the barn during a blizzard, nothing he hadn't done before, mind, but he didn't come back. Not that evening, not the next day, or the day after that. The wife was worried, but assumed he had taken up in the barn until the storm passed. Well, when it was over, she went to the barn, yet he wasn't there. The animals were sore hungry - "

"'Sore hungry'?" John raised an eyebrow at her language. Every now and then he caught her American phrasings and was utterly amused by it.

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, sore hungry, and when she finally got to the neighbors to see if anyone had seen her husband, it turned out he was missing. Weeks went by without word, and when spring arrived, she was horrified to find a pair of boots in the lee of the house. Now, mind this was a blizzard, and a long one at that, six days of howling winds and snow so fierce it packed doors from top to bottom, so the boots weren't a good sign. The wife dug the boots out, but they were attached to a pair of legs. When she finally uncovered her husband, his eyes were wide open, terrified, and his open mouth was stuffed with snow. He'd made it less than twenty feet from the house before getting hopelessly lost, and expired right there and then," Harriet finished with a flourish, while Clara made a skeptical face beside her.

"That's...one hell of a story," remarked John. He took another sip of cider, already beginning to find the sweetness cloying.

"It really happened," said Harriet. "You can read all about it in the _Herald_."

"I'm sure I can. In the meantime, I want to sleep for a thousand years, maybe more."

"You should have a lie-in tomorrow," Clara said, nodding at John and looking pointedly at Harriet. "You'll need all the rest you can get. This weather brings out the worst, especially with the drinking."

"True enough," said John, mid-yawn. "D'y'know what's funny…me neither, I forgot what I was going to say. Time for bed, I think. I'm so tired I can barely keep my eyes open."

"Good night John," Clara took his mug and set it on the side table. 

He kissed Harriet on the cheek, Clara too, for good measure, because he felt they knew each other well enough at this time where he could do that without it being an imposition. He had no interest in her, and she certainly had none in him. Funny, how before Mary he would have taken any woman living on her own, married or not, for someone who might need companionship for a night or two. Now that he knew how it could be, between husband and wife, he only wanted that again. Which was not to say he had not lived up to his reputation upon his return to England - well, before that too, because after the rebellion, India was full of widows and women wanting protection of all sorts - the pleasure had been momentary and meaningless, even when they wanted more. 

With thoughts of Mary on his mind, John washed up and put on his night dress, slipped into between cold sheets with a groan. G-d yes, this was what he needed. A good night's sleep and a fresh start in the morning. 

Jingle's advice was sound. Over the next few days John began to notice how many curtains twitched when he brought patients back to the office, or actually, whenever he brought anyone to the house, be it Lestrade, Dr. Thomas, Mr. Abrams. Of course, any and all of Harriet and Clara's abolitionist friends were no doubt fodder for the neighborhood gossips. He tended to leave the house on the nights he knew there was to be company of the anti-slavery sort, mostly because while he had his opinions and stated them when asked, they never seemed to be good enough. Everyone wanted his statements written in stone, or preferably, pen and paper and sent to the _Herald_ and _The Liberator_ and the _Atlantic Monthly_ , plus the many, many pamphlets the Society churned out.

He was hardly against the movement, far from it. He just was not personally invested apart from his belief that everyone should have their freedom. Also, he was not particularly religious, and found the proselytizing part of the movement of little interest. Occasionally offensive. Nevertheless, he did his duty and even went with Harriet and Clara when the occasion called for it. Which was rare. Bordering on never, really. 

In any case, he chose to escape to the pub most times, and on those Sundays when the Society met in the parlour, he usually managed to take his dinner upstairs to his room, where he read or answered correspondence. Over time, he noticed that Jingle, too, made herself as scarce as she could, on those nights. One day, he decided to ask her about it.

"Oh," she said, shaking her head in resignation. "They mean well, sir. They do what they can. Mr. Douglass says we cannot go further without the help of white people such as yourself. We can't do it on our own, sir."

"Mm," John murmured, unconvinced. Monsieur Louverture had successfully rebelled against France in Haiti, and there was the Great Swamp, as well, although that was hardly organized. Slaves ran there when they could, if they could, and simply disappeared into the aether.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, during a lazy, mid-morning breakfast of ham, toast, and left-over Indian pudding with cream poured over the top, a note was passed to John on the letters tray. A request from Lestrade, asking him to come to the station as soon as possible. John duly finished his meal and headed out into a very bright day.The sky was cloudless and the sun struck the fresh snow and turned the world to bright white light. There was a gusty wind blowing diamond dust into the air around every corner, leaving John grateful for his hot breakfast, and hopeful of getting some coffee with Lestrade.

Lestrade looked up, grimaced, got to his feet. "John, good to see you, take a seat."

"Ah...am I in trouble?" asked John, removing his hat.

Lestrade glanced into the hallway, looking both ways, before closing the door. "I heard you were down in Crook's Alley last night."

"Yes...and?"

"Look, far be it for me to tell you your business - "

"You bet your bottom dollar that's the case," answered John, beginning to get a little irritated.

Lestrade held up one hand. "Listen, I know, I know, but Boston is a small town, and when people say things like this, you have to pay attention. Don't fool around with those people, John. It's not like it is in London, it's worse, and they won't give you any quarter because you don't know what you're doing."

"Are you telling me not to treat my patients? Because that's not going to happen."

"I'm telling you to be careful. Watch your back. Pay attention to your surroundings."

John chuckled. "Greg, I've been in two wars and seen and done things that would make the hairs on heads turn grey. I'm not worried about your gangs."

Lestrade pursed his lips and fiddled with a pencil. "On your head be it. Just remember what I told you, and...that's it."

"Well, I appreciate the warning. So, what else did you call me here for?"

"Reverend Oughton is coming to town. I assume your sister and Mrs. Lausier will be attending the lecture?"

John nodded, having heard little else for several weeks as the date had grown closer.

"I expect there to be demonstrations denouncing the good Reverend," Lestrade paused, looking at John expectantly.

"...And?"

"They're going to be targeting anyone going, including ladies."

"Are you telling me to be careful?" John asked, trying not to laugh.

Lestrade twitched, rolled over to the filing cabinet. "Here are some pictures of the fellows in question. Study them, though I'm sure you've already seen them out and about."

Stifling his grin, John took the offered folder and flipped through the pictures. Yes, there were definitely some familiar faces in there. Elisha Bell, Harmon Dodson, Billy Kelly. Burglars, hustlers, robbers. All in all basic bad'uns. "Are they all part of the same gang?"

"No. Bell's a member of the Dublin Divers, while Dodson and Kelly are with the Scofflaws," At John's raised eyebrow, Lestrade chuckled. "I know. Not the most imaginative of names."

"I supposed it doesn't matter what they're called when they do horrible things."

"Which is why I want you to stay away from them."

Best not to rile Lestrade up any more than he already was, supposed John. "I'll do my best. But if patients call for me, I'll go."

Lestrade nodded grimly. "Go through those again and keep a sharp eye out. Wouldn't want Holmes looking you over in the morgue."

"Holmes? I haven't seen him in days, what's he been up to?"

"Oh, he's got some project or another on. Won't tell me what it's about apart from giving me mysterious letters to mail to Lord Holmes in the event of his death."

"Sounds serious," said John with a frown. "You don't really think he'll run into trouble?"

"Who? Sherlock?" Lestrade grinned, then chortled, slapping at the desk in a pathetic effort to restrain himself. "The man is a trouble magnet."

They chatted some more about various and sundry before John left for home. He stopped at the sweet shop to buy two ounces of assorted candies, making sure there was a lot of licorice, Harriet loved licorice. He also bought a few sticks of peppermint, cinnamon, and horehound, chocolate bonbons, plus a box of rose and lavender creams along with a couple of strings of rock candy for the children. A treat every once in a while would do no harm to anyone's teeth. Besides, candy was different from the cakes and pies Jingle made. Or so he told himself. Alright, yes, it was an extravagance, but how often did a person have the money to spend on frivolous things? He was very careful with his spending, and audited the household accounts with Jingle every week, unbeknownst to Harriet. And if Jingle occasionally gave him the side-eye, well, that was her privilege to do so. She had never met their mother and had no understanding of what the consequences might be if either he or Harriet were to go down that road. Or maybe it was all paranoia on his part. He liked his drink, so did Harriet, and she was the one who tended to overindulge on the sherry from time to time. So yes, he checked the accounts.

Jingle was waiting for him when he got home in the early evening. She was practically vibrating while she helped him with his coat and hat.

"There are patients waiting for you, sir. I have them in the kitchen."

New clients, then, probably poor, probably people she did not want seen waiting on the step, not that he minded. He was a doctor, the neighbors were used to people waiting for a doctor. If anything, it was Jingle's behavior that was suspicious. "It's very quiet in here, is anyone else home?"

"No, sir. Miss Harriet has taken the children to the harbour to Pearl's Emporium, and Miss Clara has gone to the library."

"Pity," he said to himself. A nearly empty house was a rare occurrence, and one he treasured for its blessed silence. Then again, silence was what had driven him out of London. That, along with the stench of the Thames, the racket of the streets, his dingy, depressing garret room which always smelled of cabbage soup. All those stairs to climb, the one window showing only London's constantly grey skies. It made him shudder just to remember. Thank G-d in heaven Harriet's husband had left her. An uncharitable thing to think, yet still, he was grateful. 

"This is Abidjah King and his wife, Cecily King, and their daughter Amelia," Jingle stepped to one side, waved John forward.

A family in need, judging by the way Mr. King clutched his cap, the deference with which he got to his feet, his shoulders hunched over far too much for such a tall man. His wife was nursing the babe, whom she covered with the flap of her threadbare shawl. "Thank you, sir, for lettin' us abide here awhile."

"Of course," John replied, putting his hands behind his back. "I'm sure Jingle took good care of you."

Jingle closed the door and put her back to it, looked nervously at John. "Abidjah has a letter for you."

Mr. King magically produced a page from his person, the corners of it dog-eared, the outer page yellowed with wear and sweat. The green wax seal was unbroken, and John did not recognize the swan design of it. Breaking the seal, he wandered away, closer to the lamp in order to better read the spidery handwriting. Whoever it was, the person has used ink watered so well the writing was barely legible. _Rgt. Honorable --_

Oh, he was no _right honorable_ to anyone.

_Dear sir -_

_I am sending to you two large joints and a small ham. Please ensure they are sent to Newton at 2 o'clock without fail. Delay could leave them rotting, or worse, stolen._

Right. "Well, let's get you in to the office so I can check you over, and Jingle will do whatever it is she does for the next bit, alright?"

The wife was wide-eyed and followed on her husband's coattails so closely John was worried she would either trip him, or herself. 

"Take of your shirt, if you don't mind," As usual, John washed his hands and brought out his stethoscope, made notations in his notebook while Mr. King slowly removed his coat, then his shirt. When John deemed him ready, he fixed a smile on his lips and faced the man. It was only due to his time in India that he was able to keep his shock to himself, for Mr. King had been brutalized. His chest was ropey with scar tissue, and at the look on John's face, he turned around so John could see his back, which was scarred even more heavily. In addition, he had been freshly marked, dried blood crusted over breaks black against the skin. Wearing a shirt and coat could only be incredibly painful. Ordinarily, John would have prescribed warm compresses and bed rest, but there was little chance of either for the Kings. 

Worse yet, there was no time for treatment, either. Even twenty-four hours would only serve to weaken the crusting and allow infection in, and given they were likely to be spending quality time in whatever place Jingle decided to put them, it seemed better to leave it be. The skin around the welts and cuts was not inflamed, or rather, it was in an amount to be expected, given the injury. He was relieved to find the welts warm, and not hot to the touch. Lack of excess heat was a good sign. "Mr. King, should you start to feel feverish, or very thirsty, you are to come to be immediately. Mrs. King, if his behavior becomes abnormal, you must tell me. Fever won't spread, but infection can."

John checked the infant as well, and found it as healthy it could be, given the circumstances. "Jingle, I want them out of the damp whenever possible. Keep them in the kitchen if you can."

"Yes, doctor."

He looked directly at Mrs. King. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

She solemnly shook her head, and he decided to trust her opinion on the matter. Hopefully if anything was wrong, she would speak to Jingle about it. Hopefully. "All right. I've done everything I can, here. Jingle will take care of you from now on."

"They'll need another ticket, sir."

John nodded. "I know. Make sure they have enough to eat for tomorrow."

"Sir," said Jingle. "Come now, the doctor's done with you."

John politely turned his back to them once more, washed his hands, tidied his instruments. As the door closed behind him, he brought out the little notebook and jotted down their details. It did not seem prudent to make a record, and yet. It seemed to him important to do so. Besides, he never felt right without being able to re-read his notes at the end of the day. 

John penned a quick note back to the sender and another to William Jackson of Newton, leaving them both on the tray for Jingle. 

John ensconced himself in the parlour with a glass of whisky and Oliver Wendell Holmes's _'Autocrat at the Breakfast Table'_. He wondered if his Holmes was any kind of relation to his journalist counterpart. Distant cousins, perhaps. 'Holmes' was nott exactly a Smith or a Jones or even a Watson. Autocrat turned out to be delightful from the start, and very, very, _very_ New England. Nonetheless, even the joy of such a book could not keep the worry about his guests from his mind.

He put the book down and stared into the coals of the fire. The question was, should he, or should he not, tell Harriet and Clara what he was doing? Would they be a help or a hinderance? Would Clara bring home any stray she found, and would Harriet be able to contain herself when she was out and about? 

There was a knock and then Jingle came in, sweeping around the door like a vision in a dark dress and white apron. "I've sent them on."

"What? Already?" John was shocked. "Is that wise?"

"Yes, I think so. The next station isn't that far."

"Oh...they have enough food and clothing? Especially for the babe?"

Jingle smiled a little. "Yes. I made sure of it."

John nodded. "Good. I worry."

"I know. You're a good doctor."

Surprised and pleased by her judgment, John smiled back. "Thank you, Jingle. That means a lot to me."

Which was no lie. It had not taken him long, as a new doctor, to understand that the people who needed doctoring the most were often the ones who would never ask for it. Which was why he went to the worst parts of Boston. And why he would continue doing so despite Lestrade's advice to the contrary.

She hesitated, as if she were going to say something else, than quietly left the room.

 

~*~

 

Late March was supposed to go out like a lamb, but someone had forgotten to tell Mother Nature. After February's mild weather (for New England, Harriet had assured him), March had indeed roared in like a lion and was still shaking its mane and stalking Boston's streets, more than occasionally shaking the odd itinerant by their scruff until they lay dead or dying in the wards of the Cambridge Hospital. Mr. Abrams was on the board of directors, and asked John if he could spare a day or two as a locum. Of course John agreed. There was little he would not do for Mr Abrams, who had proven to be of fine character. It was almost a pity Abrams was only a doctor of the mind, instead of the body. 

In any case, John had just finished his rounds, complete with washing his hands again before he dressed, which people chalked up to English eccentricity no matter what he said, when Mr. Holmes burst into the office John now shared with Dr. Chisholm.

"You!"

Startled, John froze with his coat halfway buttoned, staring back at Holmes, equally wide-eyed. "Mr. Holmes! Can I be of some service?"

Holmes rapidly looked around the room. "Where's Dr. Chisholm?"

"Out, today, with a fever. Is there anything I can help you with?"

"No," said Holmes, stepping back into the hallway.

John shook his head quizzically and did up the last two buttons.

"Yes!" Holmes said, swinging the door wide again. "You _can_ help me. Tell me about Dr. Chisholm."

"A tidy doctor. Takes little chances with his patients, preferring a more traditional medical model - "

"Ah, leeches and bloodletting?"

John nodded. "Leeches and bloodletting. I must to add that leeches certainly have their place in medicine."

"Medical mumbo jumbo with little proof of their efficacy."

"Leeches have their place," John continued loudly. He tucked his scarf more securely inside his coat before reaching for his hat. "Particularly as an aid against gangrene."

"And bloodletting?"

"Well, that one, not so much."

Holmes narrowed his eyes. "You have very modern views for a doctor."

John snorted. "I'm so glad to meet your approval."

Holmes closed the door. "As well you should be. You could be a great aid in my investigation."

"How's that, then?"

"I've been going over the mortality rates for this hospital. Nothing terrible, about what you'd expect for this time of the year in the northern hemisphere. There are discrepancies, however, particular to this ward, and Dr. Chisholm's patients."

"I don't see how," answered John, heading towards the door. "He's done nothing that would make me suspicious. Indeed, he's most conscientious of his patients."

"Perhaps on the surface, Dr. Watson, but you needn't search very hard to find the opposite is, in fact, true. Come to dinner and I'll tell you everything."

An abrupt invitation, certainly, but Holmes was an abrupt man. Moreover, if he was right, then it would be a dereliction of his duties as a doctor not to find what really was the truth, and what was fantasy. "Alright, where and when?"

"Hudson's, tonight, now."

Well, John was hungry anyway. "Lead on, sir."

Whilst he had been doing his rounds at Cambridge Hospital, or the King's Highway, as its inmates were wont to call it, the weather had turned for the worse, leaving him and Holmes to walk to Hudson's, as the buses, cabs, and trains were full. It was a miserable journey, and neither of them wasted breath nor energy trying to converse in the face of the howling wind. By the time they got to the public house, the gale had not died down one little bit.

Inside, the place was practically empty. A few diehards were at the bar, deep in their cups and barely able to give the two of them more than a bleary glance as they entered the main room. Somewhat surprisingly, there tables and near the fire place were empty of patrons. 

"Thought there would be more people in tonight, given the weather," said John, rubbing his hands together over the high railing. "Though I suppose it's best there aren't. Drink and this weather, it'll be weeks before all the bodies are found."

"Fewer patients to be had, my good doctor," replied Holmes, putting one feet on the low railing, crossing one leg over the other. Think of this storm as weeding out the weak."

Looking at Holmes in all his pompous glory, John was reminded of nothing so much as a Brahmin, haughty and self-composed and certain of their own knowledge. Even so, Holmes was a very snappy dresser. 

"Not a nice thing to say."

Holmes looked at him, one eyebrow raised.

"Oh, shut up," answered John, trying not to smile. "Go on, tell me all the details."

"Dr. Chisholm's patients die rather in rather unseemly haste, don't you think?"

"Many of them are very ill, and some are very poor. I don't think it's any great surprise his turnover rate is high."

"Higher than average for the rest of the hospital? Indeed, higher even than Massachusetts General Hospital, which takes in far more patients?"

"Hmm, no, that can't be true," John moved back from the fire and took his own seat.

They were interrupted by Mr. Kelley, bringing over their coffee. Hands on his hips, he looked at both of them, clearly in the mood to talk.

"Hell of night, ain't it?"

"Must be a slow night for you," said John.

Kelley nodded, folded his arms. "Yeah. We've got rooms upstairs if you don't fancy goin' out again. Just let me or the missus know."

John eyed Holmes once Kelley was headed back to the bar, and promptly had to bite back the giggle that threatened to escape. Stay upstairs, he would just as soon as stay in the nearest barn. Less fleas, and warmer, no doubt. Oh, that probably was not fair of him. The public house was very clean, even the water closet was clean, the upstairs would be fine. Not that he was planning on finding out, mind. "That can't be true. Mass General is much bigger than Cambridge. It gets all the rough trade from abroad, too.'

"It is true, and what's more, your conscientious Dr Chisholm is the epicenter," Holmes leaned over the table, looking back towards the bar before continuing on. "What's he like, as a person. Tell me about his family."

John shrugged. "I don't know much, really. He married last year, or, I should say re-married last year. He has two children from his wife's previous marriage, and a son by the new one. The son is a little older than one might expect…"

Holmes gave a single nod on the up. "And the other children?"

"Two girls, older, much older. I think one's to be married fairly soon-ish," said John, stirring two lumps of golden sugar into his coffee. He tasted, added a couple of drops of cream, because this was the kind of night he needed comfort, rather than acid.

Holmes followed suit, adding far more sugar than John would have guessed he took, and a great deal of cream, so much so the coffee was nearly white. Holmes took a sip, grimaced, added yet more sugar. 

They sat in silence for a few more minutes, John contemplating how it was he was here instead of home, and dreading the walk, Holmes no doubt thinking about something else entirely. 

"Here you go, gents, on the house," Kelley placed a plate of toast, sliced cheese, and a pot of jam on the small table between their chairs. 

"Thank you very much!" John glanced up at Kelly in surprise. "We don't know if we're staying."

Kelley lifted one shoulder. "You'll want it if'n you go out there."

"Thank you," answered John, not wanting to seem ungrateful or ungracious.

"Welcome," Kelley threw over his shoulder as he walked away.

"That's a turn up for the books," muttered John. He happily slathered a piece of toast with jam and bit into it. Sweet strawberry flavour burst onto his tongue, and he gave happy little grunt. "You should dig in before I eat the lot."

Holmes was staring at him, but seemed to come back to himself after a few seconds. "Yes, it looks delicious."

"His eldest daughter actually works at the hospital," continued John. He licked a smear of jam off of his thumb. "Mary Ann, nice girl. Like her father, very caring with her patients."

"Too caring?"

"She's gone through a lot of grief. Her mother died in childbirth, two younger brothers died, her grandfather died in a fire, her grandmother was hit by debris when the _Sumner_ exploded at India Wharf in fifty-six. For some people, they turn to taking care of other people. Mostly women, it seems to me."

"Hmmm." Holmes steepled his fingers and contemplated the fire, now dying down to coals. 

John quickly drank the rest of his rapidly cooling coffee. Despite the fire, the wind was creeping in, making the large room less warm than it ordinarily would be. He poured himself another half cup, added the requisite ingredients to fortify himself for the journey to come. "Why are you suspicious of the daughter?"

Holmes was silent, leaving John with the sense his company was no longer wanted. A good thirty minutes later John was itching to get home, so he said his goodbyes to Holmes, who still sat in his thinker's pose. On his way out, John spotted Kelley and jerked his thumb at Holmes. "One for the night, I believe."

"Alright, sir," replied Kelley, wiping down the bar. He flicked the towel at the door. "Be careful out there."

John pulled his hat down on his head and headed out into the storm.

~*~

If the trip to Hudson's Public House was miserable, then the walk back to Beacon Hill was downright hellacious. For the first time since his arrival in America, John wondered if he had made a mistake. He was used to foul weather, he had spent a winter in the Crimea, and India was the same both cold and hot. Boston could be very windy, and it could be very cold, and occasionally was downright sweltering, but now he truly understood why people bundled up in layers to go outside in winter. Even coastal England in November was warmer, and given the damp winds coming off the North Sea and the Channel, that was saying something. Here, though, the cold was colder, the damp damper, the waves from the Atlantic more intense. The snow driving into his face nearly blinding in its intensity. Even with his heaviest winter gloves, the ones with the silk and wool lining, and his wool socks, his fingers hurt from the cold, and he could only assume his toes were still there, he could barely feel them.

He trudged through the snow, struggling through drifts sometimes higher than his knees. There was no one about and even some of the streetlights remained unlit. That was fine, it was all fine. Home was not too far away now, though it was hard to tell with visibility so poor. Funny how familiar buildings turned strange in the dark and the freezing cold. Just went to show, a person could not do without good clothing and boots in this kind of storm. Maybe Holmes was right, if a person could not be bothered to take care of themselves at this time of the year, maybe everyone _was_ better off without them. Or maybe he was reading too much German philosophy, because that was a terrible thing to think. Granted, he was a doctor, he was used to life and death and making decisions that affected everyone. Then again, he was also a soldier, too. Being both led to a certain...flippancy, yes, he would call it that, flippancy around what life was worth.

For the second time in as many weeks, John eventually stumbled into the house shaking with cold that soaked him to the bone. The household was quiet, but Harriet and Clara's cloaks were hanging on the stand, so they were probably upstairs, asleep. Ah yes, going by the grandfather clock, definitely asleep. He did not bother removing his coat in the foyer, thinking the kitchen would be warmest. And he was right. Unfortunately he knocked over a jug of cooking tools, spatulas and the like, while taking off his coat. Hoping he hadn't woken the household, he brought a chair from the table to sit right in front of the new cook stove. Jingle certainly seemed happy with it, though Harriet assured him the learning curve was steep. Just as well she was not the cook.

A tremendous yawn caught him by surprise. Blinking hard, John gathered his boots and gloves, leaving his coat to continue drying out. Halfway down the hall he stopped and listened to the howl of the wind. With any luck the storm would be gone in the morning, blown out to sea along with his doubts about Harriet and Clara's oncoming trip to the Big Smoke.

 

~*~

John roused from a deep sleep to stare blearily at a white porcelain cup with a floral design. Steam rose from it along with two dark biscuits on the saucer. His bedroom door was just closing when he looked at it, whoever had brought him...tea...an utter mystery. 

Getting up did not appeal at all.

He was warm and cozy under the down comforter and thick quilts and thought he could probably go back to sleep, even though the curtains were bright with morning light. An overcast day nonetheless, he decided, sitting up and immediately regretting it. While a fire had been started, its warmth had yet to reach the bed. Tea would do for a start, however. Holding the cup in both hands, he drank as fast as the temperature allowed, ate the warm ginger biscuits, too. They were chewy and delicious and how was he going to live without Jingle's fine cooking while Harriet and Clara were in London? He grunted to himself. As if that train of thought was not just indicative of how far he had fallen as a bachelor. As if he could not imagine cooking for himself, or going out to eat. Maybe he would take Lestrade up on his offer to out and go hunting this summer, just to keep his hand in. 

At the sound of childish voices and feet pelting up the stairs, John sighed and shook his head. Time to get on with the day.

Washed and dressed, John first checked his office schedule - no patients for the day - then headed for the kitchen and breakfast. He opened the door to find Holmes sitting at table. Legs crossed, a cup of tea in front of him, he looked completely at his ease. Jingle sent John a glance he could not interpret, save that she seemed at her ease. At least Holmes had yet to pissed her, that was something. "Good...morning."

"Indeed," answered Holmes. "I've been given excellent coffee, and breakfast cake of some sort."

John lifted an eyebrow at Jingle as he sat down.

"Pancakes and maple syrup, sausage on the side," she said, pouring batter into a pan on the stove.

John rubbed his hands together. "Sounds good to me. A good stack, please."

He could tell from the state of her back she found him hilarious. The truth was that he easily packed away five or six pancakes every time she made them. The odd thing was that she refused to make extras for him, saying they had to 'Be hot, or not worth the eating', and no amount of insisting upon his part moved her. She was a strange woman, going so far to call his notions of breakfast and elevenses and tea utter nonsense. As if she would even know! Which reminded him - "Jingle, how do you fancy going to London?"

"Connecticut? No, thank you, sir. I'm content where I am."

"No, I meant in England. London, England," he said, fully aware that she was dissembling. Of course he had not meant New London, neither had she. But why would she want to stay here with just him in the house? The image of her easy smile came to mind and he physically recoiled. No. Surely...no. The very idea of it was abhorrent. One did not sleep with servants, _ever_. No matter the color of her skin, her social status as a slave. Even if she were a freedwoman, no.

"You're quite right," murmured Holmes, watching Jingle flip a pancake. "She wishes to stay here for other, far more mundane reasons."

"Oh yeah? How's that, then?"

"Here you go," said Jingle, sliding a plate of pancakes in front of John. She pulled the container of syrup over, handed him knife and fork. 

True to type, he had a huge stack of six pancakes in front of him, complete with a lump of yellow butter on top. He happily tucked in, suddenly ravenous at the sight.

"Jingle has no interest in going overseas due to other business here, isn't that right?"

She turned from wiping out the pan with a dry cloth to stare at Holmes. "Yes," she said without inflection. "The Reverend Washington has asked me to help him in his good works while Miss Harriet and Miss Clara are away.

As good a reason as any, John supposed. He cut another square of pancake and popped it into his mouth. 

"See?" Holmes sniffed and took a sip of his coffee. "This really is excellent, by the way. Possibly the best coffee I've ever had."

"He spent a long time in France," John said to Jingle. "So long he's forgotten what real coffee tastes like."

Holmes grimaced. "They drink boiled swill over there. I don't recommend it. Stick to the teas if you can, herbal and floral and most things with gingers didn't end up too well."

John managed to get halfway through his breakfast before Holmes finally came to the reason for being in John's kitchen.

"Dr. Watson, I have a case, and I would value your opinion."

"Oh? Another murder?"

"Yes, obviously. You quite seem to enjoy them, judging by the evenness of your gait."

John glanced at his leg. "My what?"

"Don't be obtuse. Have you not realized you've stopped using your cane?"

With a start, John realized that Holmes was right. The cane was in the umbrella stand, gathering more and more dust with each passing day. "Hunh."

"The mystery of the disappeared girl," Holmes intoned solemnly.

John grimaced. "Can it wait until I'm done eating?"

"I suppose," Holmes said, flicking his fingers at John's plate. "Keep consuming while I talk."

Lovely. 

"The girl, sixteen, disappeared one night. Having been taken in by distant relatives at the age of nine, her mother having died the previous year and her father too hardworking to spare the time a young girl needs, she ran away in the middle of June. Now, hearing this, you might think at her age she simply ran away, gone to the mills or some such, but that is not the case. The neighbors, living diagonally across the road and in clear view of both farmhouse and barn, reported hearing screams earlier in the evening. A mob formed, threatening the household with terrible death if the girl was not produced. The sheriff arrived on scene, having been sent for earlier in the morning, and arrested the girl's aunt-by-marriage, Bessie. She was partially deaf and claimed to have little understanding of what was going on around her, though I can assure you the reverse is true. Her eldest son, Ephraim, claimed innocence, but their stories in no way matched."

"Was the son convicted of the crime?" 

"No, it was the aunt who did it."

"How so?"

"They arrested her based strictly on conjecture, as well as what the neighbors had witnessed. There was no trace of the child anywhere, and nearly a year passed before the eldest son, Ephraim, if you recall, confessed to the deed."

"But why, and how?"

"Guess."

John sipped his coffee and shook his head. "I never guess."

"You're a doctor, you guess all the time."

"Oh no, not thats not true and you very well know it."

Holmes's lips twitched. "The son confessed to giving the girl strychnine, having bought it earlier that day to kill rats in the barn."

"A likely story."

"Indeed."

"So if they know how the girl was murdered - what was the why?"

"According to rumour, jealousy. The aunt was jealous of the girl's beauty - "

John rolled his eyes.

"My thoughts exactly. The girl had been hired to work at another farm, she was in fact due to go there only a few days hence.

It was at another nearby farm that I came closer to what I believe is the truth."

"Did it involve slippers and pumpkins at midnight?" quipped John. 

"Perhaps not so far off. A Mrs. Hatherlow described to me what she had seen and heard, in and about Rockwall Farm. Firstly, the girl had accused one of the other male adults of the house of interfering with her. The case was brought before the court, but dismissed as being unfounded."

John nodded sourly. "Can I guess that her character was thoroughly besmirched, be she eight or eighty?"

"But of course," replied Holmes. "Brought low by this verdict, the girl returned to Rockwall Farm, which, by the bye, was only rented accommodation. The family moved every few years, though whether by accident or design, I do not know. The neighbors report hearing silence for a week, two weeks, three. But this was nearly early summer and the weather was hot, so when the girl began to be beaten again, they could all hear."

"And kept their mouths shut, no doubt."

"You know the general public well."

John waved all the fingers of his left hand. "Doctor, remember? I hear all sorts."

"Ye-e-e-s...I expect you do. The screaming and shouting began once more, though the neighbors did naught but talk amongst themselves, rather than intruding on the privacy of the victim."

"Good fences make good neighbors," quoted John, though he could not think of the author off the top of his head.

"Yes, just so. The girl disappears, the son confesses, and the aunt continues on her merry way."

"What, just indiscriminately killing people left and right?? asked John, outraged.

Holmes held up one hand. "Not so fast, Watson. Not only does the son confess, but the very next week accuses his aunt of not only buying him the strychnine, but of beating the girl black and blue as well. The girl was beaten with a broom handle, a rolling pin, a shoe, once even with the very Bible itself."

The last was said so salaciously, John immediately disregarded it. "What part of this is mysterious? So far it seems as if all the details were known and understood."

"Ah, the mystery lies in the disappearance, Watson! Where did she go? Why had no one seen her in days? No traveller reported seeing her in a tavern nor guest house nor whorehouse."

"She's there somewhere, probably in a swamp or tucked into a hollow tree trunk, buried in a field," he shrugged. Utterly mystified as to what Holmes was really asking him. "Until someone confesses…"

"Exactly, precisely!" said Holmes. "Now, if you're done, we're off to see Lestrade."

 

 

Lestrade was tucking in to a plate of eggs and beans and groaned when he caught sight of them in the doorway. "Whatever it is, can it wait until I've finished eating?"

"No," said Holmes imperiously, practically flinging himself into one of the chairs in front of Lestrade's desk. He motioned towards an open file. "It was murder."

John sat down more slowly, hoping Lestrade really did not mind the two of them being there while he ate. 

"And?" asked Lestrade,emphasizing his comment with knife and fork.

"There's a murderer at Cambridge Hospital."

Lestrade pushed away his plate and leaned back in his chair. "Yeah, I'm sure there are loads of them."

"This one is murdering patients."

The chair made no sound as Lestrade came back to his desk. He glanced at John. "How do you know?"

"The weekly, monthly, and yearly mortality rates," answered Holmes. "The deaths are utterly random, suggesting the murderer might work in shifts, in multiple locations inside the hospital."

John nodded. "He's right. I took a look at the reports last night. There's no question, no question at all that something's been happening. Moreover, I don't know how everyone's missed it until now."

"There's no pattern," added Holmes. "Young people, old people, married, single, fat, thin. All of them have come under Dr. Chisholm's hand."

"But there is absolutely no indication that I can find," said John. "that he's the root cause. I've worked with him plenty of times, I just don't get that feeling about him."

Holmes snorted. "How would _you_ know?"

Instantaneously, John wanted to punch him in the face. "Might I remind you, once again, that I _am_ a doctor as well as a soldier? I know about men, I know about doctors. I can tell you that Dr. Chisholm is one of the good ones."

Lestrade looked back and forth between the two of them. He had another bite of beans, wiped his mouth. "I'm inclined to take Dr. Watson's advice on this, unless you can show me some actual proof - "

"- the reports!" barked Holmes.

" - _actual proof_ ," repeated Lestrade loudly, drowning out Holmes's protestations. "That Dr. Chisholm is responsible. Have you looked at other members of his staff?"

"There's a rota of doctors on the ward," answered John. "Myself included. No one's died on my watch, but that means nothing."

"Say that again."

John looked at Holmes. "What? I'm part of the rota as well and no one's died on my watch?"

"That's it!" cried Holmes, sitting up straight. He grabbed a blank sheet of paper and a pencil from the desk, ignoring Lestrade questioning, upraised hand. "Watson, with whom do you work?"

"Dr. Chisholm, Dr. Kidder, and occasionally Dr. Mann."

"No, not the doctors, the nurses."

"Oh, um. There's Dr. Chisholm's niece, of course, Mary Ann, Miss Amy Barker, Miss Charity Simm, Mrs Cathy Ellison, Miss Mary Eliza Mahoney, and Miss Julia Gordon. They're on the wards, doing training while Dr. Zakrzewska collects funds for her new hospital."

"G-d bless, and Doctor who?" asked Lestrade, tapping tobacco into a pipe.

"Zak-shev-ska," repeated John, enunciating slowly. "Don't ask me to spell it. She's going to start a hospital for women and children here in Boston. No men allowed in their care, but she needs nurses once the door open, so you could say these women are here for experience."

"My Lucy would kill me if I didn't say that was a wonderful thing, so hurrah," muttered Lestrade. "Which one of them's the killer?"

John huffed a laugh. "I'd say 'none of them', and have done with it."

Holmes shook his head. "We're not done yet. Which of them works with Dr. Chisholm?"

"Mm, depends on the rota."

"Is there a set weekly schedule for doctors and nurses?"

"Well, yes, more or less. There's overlap, of course. I seem to see everyone on a weekly basis, I'm sure the others do, too. Miss Mary Ann lives with Dr. Chisholm, so of course she rides in with him, most of the time, anyway. Occasionally they're here at different times."

"Who do you work with most often?"

John shrugged helplessly. "All of them? I prefer working with Miss Mahoney, she's got a good head on her shoulders and pays attention to patient complaints. She's also not faint of heart, and will readily lay hands upon any patient when I require her aid. Her stitches are very, very tidy, and she has a gift for soothing fractious children. Of the rest of them, I suppose I see Miss Barker and Miss Gordon. They both like working in the afternoon, while Miss Mahoney is always cheerful no matter the time of day or night."

"Those three are off the list," said Holmes, firmly scribbling their names out.

"Alright. Well, I see Miss Mary Ann the least, usually only when Dr. Chisholm and I are crossing paths, updating one another on the status of our patients before we leave for the day. I don't know Mrs. Ellison at all, and Miss Simm irritates me. She always says she's going to do as I ask, then does precisely the opposite. Or she'll do what I ask in the most annoying manner possible. I mean, how difficult is it to alphabetize! If a paper has multiple authors in it, she'll file it under the name of the last author! _And_ she's not consistent in that, either! She's decided my method of organization isn't good enough, and will be redoing it from scratch!"

Lestrade nodded knowingly. "You're unmarried, mate. She just wants to spend as much with you as possible."

John looked at Lestrade, aghast. "I'm not on the bloody market, am I? She's thirty-five if she's a day!"

Holmes's eyebrows shot up. 

"Picky..." said Lestrade. "In any case, what do you want us to do about your little problem? I can't just leave police officers strewn around the hospital on a whim."

"No, but I have an idea - "


	3. Chapter 3

Holmes settled back into the chair John had started thinking of as his. It just seemed to somehow befit the man, with its high back and muted yellow upholstery. Lestrade faced Holmes in the other chair, while John stood between the two of them, leaning against the mantel. He was trying to decide if the fire needed banking, or simply let be. The room was warm - for now - and it was late enough that everyone else had gone to bed, and he had sent Jingle away, too. No need for her to wait on them when it was likely they would be up for hours yet. Eh, the fire was very warm, too warm for him to stand in front of it. With that in mind, John pulled the piano bench over and sat down, the better for them to talk quietly, though he doubted anyone else in the house would be bothered by whatever secret Holmes was about to spill.

"It's a private matter," Holmes had said in Lestrade's office, after perusing a file and solving a year old murder, as if by mere whim. "May I call on you later this evening? Lestrade will come, too."

"Will Lestrade come?" Lestrade pondered aloud, his brows drawn down, staring at Holmes as if the demand was utterly unreasonable.

Holmes barely spared him a glance. "As if you had anything better to do, now that your wife's left you again."

Oh dear. The ongoing saga of Lestrade and 'His Lucy' (also occasionally 'Annie' and 'Martha')was never ending. She could not stay away and he could not give her up; John could just barely understand the temptation. not in her case, when she was so clearly uninterested in taking the marriage bed seriously. It was a wonder they only had one childr. John was surprised at his own thought process. There was no need to get after Lestrade when John's own history of marriage and romance was...uneven.

Lestrade conceded the point with an embarrassed little head bob, looking anywhere but Holmes. "Alright, alright, no need to dig it in."

"Nothing you can't say here?" asked John, looking pointedly at the closed door.

"There are thieves and spies everywhere, especially in a place like this," Holmes replied. "Also, you have coffee."

"Oh ho!" crowed Lestrade. "He's had some of Jingle's fine cooking!"

John grinned at Holmes's scowl. "That's alright, Holmes. She does that to everyone."

"Tonight? Nine pm? You have an extra room if Lestrade isn't fit to go home."

"Oi!"

"Be that as it may, the weather may be too poor for anyone to venture forth," Holmes added carefully.

"It's fine," John said, smiling to show he was just teasing. "The children can always sleep with Harriet, and you can have their room for the night."

Holmes's look of horror so delighted John, he jumped to his feet and gathered his things together. "Nine o-clock, then. Ta-ra."

Now, though, it was hours later and Harriet and Clara had just retired to bed, claiming headaches, which John knew was merely a convenience for spending time in the same room together. Honestly, why they bothered with the subterfuge of illness; he knew they knew that he knew about the nature of their relationship. Perhaps the pretense was merely one of habit. _He_ certainly was not opposed to the idea of two women being together! As he had told Mary when she had tentatively approached the subject, there were plenty of people for whom the idea of love and intimacy with a person of the same sex was neither dangerous nor a sin. The fact that he happened to be one of them meant nothing. Love was love, in his opinion, so long as it was legal and everyone was of age, then have at it.

"This must be kept in the strictest confidence, John," said Holmes, looking at John intently. "Lestrade is involved and already knows many of the details, not that he could tell you what they were should you ask."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Yeah, you wish."

John was not quite sure what that meant, but Lestrade was strange that way, always referring to things John did not understand, as he had never been to California. Then he realized Holmes had called him by his Christian name once again, which pleased him.

"What I'm about to tell you must be kept in utmost secrecy. Not a hint of it to Clara or Harriet, or you'll be putting their lives in danger."

John nodded solemnly. 

"Lestrade is the only other person on this continent who knows why I'm here."

"And that is...?"

"To find and retrieve on James Moriarty, Fenian and murderer. I'm to return him to Her Majesty's pleasure, and in so doing, destroy what I can of the network he's created."

Pondering the number of Irish in Boston, John shook his head. "That sounds like an impossible task."

One corner of Holme's mouth turned up. "Only if you don't know where to start. I've infiltrated two of his businesses, discovered several murders, and solved even more."

"Moriarty's got his fingers in lots of pies," added Lestrade, crossing his legs. He flicked his fingers towards Holmes. "When I first met him, I didn't believe a word he had to say about Moriarty. Moriarty's the son of an Irish lord, an educated man, and one who's fallen under the aegis of the revolutionaries. Holmes has been after Moriarty for a long time and if he says Moriarty's over here, I'd believe him."

"So what do you want with me? A doctor on call?"

"No, I need a soldier to do his duty," replied Holmes. "I need a man of action, John. You're bored with your patients, the runny noses and upset stomachs, the births and the deaths and all of it. Work with me and I'll see you get all the adventure you could possibly want. Perhaps even more than that."

The offer was tempting - very tempting. 

"Look, mate, if you need a word of honour, you can have mine," said Lestrade, nodding at Holmes. "For a posh git he's a stand up bloke."

Far from being offended, it appeared Lestrade's comment only amused Holmes. "Should anything happen to you, my brother will make sure your sister has adequate recompense."

"That's not exactly reassuring," answered John, already itching to hit Boston's snowy streets.

"You don't want reassurance, you want death."

The truth of it punched John's breath out of his lungs. He supposed he ought to deny it, especially in front of Lestrade, but Lestrade did not seem too perturbed by the idea. "Shouldn't you uh, be telling me that's not a good way to think?"

Lestrade smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. "America is not England. The further west you go, the more you understand the old rules of society don't apply here. You'll find yourself doing things you never even knew were possible. You'll find yourself doing things..." he drifted off, gazing at the fire.

John ignored the wetness in Lestrade's eyes and turned his attention back to Holmes. "What would be required of me?"

"Come with me on cases. Advise me on the medical aspects of them. Tell me when a thing is impossible, such as spontaneous combustion. I solved that case, by the bye," said Holmes to Lestrade. "It was the son, of course. The wife gave the mother a dose of laudanum with her soup, and when the old woman was asleep, the son crept up and stabbed her, then set fire to her clothing."

"She wasn't dead," blurted John, reminded once again of the Bibighar. He was horrified. The amount of blood on the bed was proof that the heart still beat for some time after the blow had been delivered - G-d, the depravity! He had witnessed worse in India. Thank G-d the Governor-General had banned suttee. The first one he had seen had given him nightmares, and considering he had just come from the Crimea, that was saying something. A woman literally throwing herself onto her husband's funeral pyre as the troopship came up the Ganges, passing the ghats on the way Patna, her white sari going up almost instantly, her screams echoing across the water as the flames consumed her.

John shuddered at the memory. 

"She didn't feel anything after that," said Holmes, a note of curiosity in his voice, as if he genuinely could not understand why anyone would be disturbed at the thought of someone suffering.

Lestrade settled his ankle across his knee. "Nonetheless, Holmes needs a back up man, and you're perfect for the job, if you want it."

It would be a great change from what he was doing now. Could he do this and still keep the practice alive? Without that money - "I'll have to keep some surgery hours every week. I won't be able to attend every action as soon as you call," John said slowly, thinking furiously on what the best hours would be. Monday mornings, obviously. Actually, all day Monday, Tuesday mornings, and all day Thursday. That sounded reasonable, and he was fairly sure most of his patients would agree with the new schedule. Those that did not, well, they were free to go elsewhere. "Alright, I'm in."

"You were already in, mate, you just didn't know it."

John quirked a brow at Lestrade, then noticed Holmes looking smug. Why, they had yet to - ah. 

Holmes smiled. "Great fun, wasn't it?"

_"You_ are unbelievable," said John in disbelieving admiration.

"You fell for it hook, line, and sinker. You should be pleased by the results."

"Oh I am, I am. I just...you could have told me all of this weeks ago."

Holmes shrugged. "I wasn't sure."

Lestrade snorted. "The day you're not sure of something is the day I marry the Queen of England."

"You know my brother, that could be arranged."

"Are you Royalty, then?" asked John.

"Nothing so pedantic. I will say that my brother works for the Government."

"Ha!" cackled Lestrade, sitting back from brushing a hot coal back into the fireplace. He jerked his head at Holmes. "His brother _is_ the government, and take care not to forget it. You'll find yourself on your arse faster than you can say boo to a ghost."

"Right, right," muttered John, unsure if Lestrade was making a joke or if what he was saying was really true. Maybe none of it mattered on these shores. "So where do we go from here?"

"We need to talk to Clemmie and Perrine again, then canvas Mrs. Camera's abode. Moriarty won't be there, naturally, but I have learned one of his men is by his side most times, one Colonel Sebastian Moran."

Lestrade shot to his feet. "That bastard!" He rounded on Holmes, pointed at his face. "You never told me he was here, in Boston! This is my town, I'll not have that rat son of a bitch in my town!"

Taken aback by the strength of Lestrade's comment, after a second John prepared to rise and grab Lestrade off of Holmes should he press the situation any further.

Holmes held up one hand, shook his head. "This is why I didn't tell you. "

"You _know_ what he did," growled Lestrade, stepping back and knocking his pipe tobacco into the fireplace with more force than necessary. "He's a bastard, evil."

"What's he look like?" asked John slowly, remembering the Moran who had almost gotten his Mary in India. Doubtful they were one and the same person.

"Tall, with a boxer's physique. He's an excellent shot with pistol and rifle, the best I've ever seen," said Lestrade with great introspection, clearly remember a bad time. "He loves using knives, says it's the best way to look someone in the eye and know they understand who killed them. He'll kill men, women, even children without compassion. He calls hunting people 'sport'...he says it's his favorite thing to do in this world, and hopes he can continue on doing it in the next world. He...I know what kind of man he is, John. My advice is to kill him before he kills you."

Evil did sound like the appropriate word. But John had known men like that not only in India, but the Crimea as well. Men who gloried in bloodlust and felt free to let their basest natures run wild. He was ashamed to say how much he, too, had felt the pull. Especially after Cawnpore and Lucknow. He himself had done...terrible things. "Alright, that's Moran. Tell me more about Moriarty."

Holmes steepled his fingers before his mouth and thought for a few minutes before speaking. "Think of Moriarty as the spider at the center of a web. He plucks sticky strands from here and there, gathers intelligence and uses blackmail and bribery to get what he wants. He's not above bombing a family home, or shooting a servant in the head in front of children. He's ruthless and cunning and sending him here has put the cat amongst the pigeons. When he's done, he'll go home to boast about his success." 

"Why would he go home?" asked John. "After all, if he can raise money and wreak havoc, why not do that, instead?"

Both men simply blinked at him before looking at one another.

"Christ!" whispered Lestrade softly. "I've just assumed he would go back, but John's right, why would he?"


	4. Chapter 4

As it turned out, the weather was too rough for either Holmes or Lestrade to leave. Holmes was all for trying it, but both Lestrade and John dissuaded him from the attempt. Truth to tell, John was not convinced Holmes wanted to leave. Oh, he said all the right words, just without any emphasis. His slowness in getting his coat spoke volumes. John did not mind. If anything, he was glad of the company. Holmes and Lestrade were mostly easy to be with and Lestrade seemingly took no offence at anything Holmes said regarding his person, his clothing, the police, or his family. Which made him even higher in John's regard, for Holmes was not an easy man to be around. Was he a genius? Possibly. Certainly he was the most intelligent person John had ever met, though Lestrade mentioned something about Holmes, senior, that had Holmes, junior, sneering in envy.

By the time they turned in, Holmes and Lestrade sharing the unoccupied bedroom, it was past two in the morning. None of them could keep from yawning, although all made the attempt. A good sign, thought John, of excellent companionship. 

Upon making sure all the doors were locked and the fires banked, he too went to his bed. For all his exhaustion - the trip from Hudson's Public House had strained him further than he realized - he found that now that he was lying down, he was wide awake. For a long time, he lay there in the dark, listening to the tick of sleet against the window pane. Even so, it was with some surprise that he heard a quiet scratch at the door. When it came again, he realized it wasn't his imagination, and after throwing on a robe, went to see who it was.

"Harriet? What's wrong, what's the matter?"

She looked sore afraid, biting her lip bloodless, shivering in her robe. "Can I talk to you?"

"Of course," said John, hastily stepping back. "Are the children all right?"

"Yes, they're fine," she murmured, climbing into his bed and getting under the covers.

With raised eyebrows he followed her lead, even though it was strange to be in the same bed as his sister as an adult. They hadn't done this since they were little. At first, John said nothing. He lay on his back and waited for her to talk. As she shivered, he began to wonder if maybe she was ill. It was warm in the house, and she certainly hadn't seemed off of her dinner. If anything, she ate as heartily as usual, and the chowder had been outstanding on a night like this. When she rolled on to her side and still remained silent, he had to know. "Harry, what's going on."

"I have to tell you something," she whispered, her voice cracking on an inhaled sob. "Please don't be angry at me."

_That depends on what it is,_ he did not say. Instead, he grabbed her hand and squeezed it tight. He already knew about Clara, which really only left the children. Maybe they weren't Silas's after all - not that he cared, he was their uncle regardless of who their father might be.

"Something happened before you arrived, something wicked. Oh god..."

He was beginning to get scared, now. Never had she sounded so...terrified. And it wasn't a new fright, either. No, she was confessing, she wanted forgiveness, but for what? "What?" he whispered back. "You can tell me anything, Harry. I'll always love you, you know that."

"Will you?" She sniffled against his shoulder, raising their joined hands to kiss his knuckles.

"Just tell me," he said, his heart beginning to pound faster.

"Clara...we did a bad thing, John. "

He desperately wanted to light the lamp, to see her face as she spoke. Unfortunately he had the feeling that if he did, she would pretend it was something else, some kind of malarkey that had nothing to do with the truth and everything to do with lying to him. Could this be why she drank too much from time to time? Was it as simple as guilt?

"Before you came...we had only met that fall, the year before you came. She was the loveliest girl I'd ever seen, John. So beautiful, and I was so lonely. You don't know what it's like, being an Englishwoman in this country."

Now he was glad the room was dark, so she couldn't see him roll his eyes. Always with the excuses, was Harry. The other girls didn't like her, reading was too hard, needles pricked her fingers, he was always getting more attention, Uncle James said she was too chatty, Aunt Rosamund thought she was horrid. "So you met Clara..."

"She...we attended many lectures together, those of Mr. Sumner, Mr. Douglass, and Mr. Howe. I introduced her to Hartwell and Eliza, and of course they took to her straight away. We would go to the common, or the docks. We took them to the museums and the free library. "

In the dark, John felt free to frown, though he managed not to shake his head. Taking children to the common! He could only hope it was during full daylight, preferably with a male escort with at least one cosh to hand. But this was her story, and if he wanted to know, he had to keep his tongue.

"When I finally met her husband, Guillaume, I didn't take to him. He was a cruel man, John. He treated her terribly. He said horrible things to her, and kept her in the most tattered clothes! Thank god she had no children by him, he would have taken them in an instant and banned her from ever seeing them again!"

Which, while awful, was nothing unusual. 

"We were there, one summer night. The children were in bed, Jingle was making us a bite to eat...we weren't doing anything wrong, John, I swear!"

Ah. Now was the time to intervene and reassure. "Harry, I'm a doctor. Not only that, I've been in the Army for more years than I care to think about, _and_ I've lived in India, home of more exotic images than you can possibly imagine. Not even reading Sherezad's stories can prepare you for what you'll witness. I've seen things on temple, religious buildings, that would make you blush! There are all types of love in this world," he continued, speaking softly, as if to calm a frightened horse. "and in my opinion, most of them are legitimate. _Love is not love which alters when it alteration finds_ "

She was silent for a moment. "You and your Shakespeare."

He wondered if she realized he was thinking of her when he had spoken, rather than her and Clara. Probably not, she never caught on to that sort of thing.

"I opened one of your books, once, when you were away at school. I didn't like it. All I remember is something about bloody hands."

"MacBeth, it was MacBeth," answered John, his heart sinking. Why couldn't she have chosen one of the comedies, instead? "Harriet Louisa Catherine Watson, what did you do?"

"We killed him."

Time stopped. "You what?"

"He hit Clara, kicked her, called her the most foul names! And when he was done, he threw me against the wall and slapped me!" Harriet said it all in a rush, before he could get in a word edgewise. "Then Jingle hit him in the back of his head, and he was lying there on the floor and oh god, John, if they find out we'll hang!"

John rolled up on his bad shoulder, ignored the sudden twinge of muscle under strain. "Why? Why would he do any of that?"

She turned her face into the pillow and spoke so quietly he had to ask her to repeat herself. "I said, we were kissing. Clara and myself."

Despite what he had said to her only moments earlier, he found the mental image of the two of them kissing shocking. It was one thing to see a stranger or a bloke you knew do that, quite another when it was your sister.

"Please don't hate me, John," she said lowly. When he was silent, she drew away and threw the covers back. "I...I can't regret what we did. He was an evil man, John. I don't use those words lightly, but he was."

She was halfway to the door when he spoke. "You said Jingle hit him?"

"Yes. With the fire iron, in the back of his head."

He sat up, slipped his arms into the sleeves of his robe."Did she do anything else?"

"No. Well, not really. I think he was dead soon after. I don't know, I had to help Clara."

"And the fire was to cover what you'd done?"

"Yes."

"Does anyone else know?"

She hesitated. "No..."

"Who?" he asked, tying his robe more tightly around his waist.

"Your Mr. Holmes. He guessed. The day we met, when he came here, and you had a patient. He told us he knew what we had done, although he wasn't clear on the details."

"Anyone else?"

"No."

Relief flooded through him. "Thank god."

Taking a deep breath, he went to his sister and put his arms around her. "Thank god in heaven above."

"John?"

He took her head in both his hands, forcing her to look at him, or at least at the blur of him in the darkness of the room. "You're not to tell anyone else this story ever, do you hear me?"

"But - "

"No. No one else, not ever. If you need to talk about your feelings, you can come to me. Clara can, too."

"What about Jingle?"

"She's a slave, Harry. The last person she wants to talk to about anything is me, and I don't think she would appreciate knowing that I know. But let me tell you this. I _will_ sacrifice her in a heartbeat to protect you and the children," A sudden thought occurred to him. "Do they know what happened? They were there..."

She nodded. "They were asleep, upstairs. They didn't see anything, but they might have heard him shouting, and we had to set the fire and wait for it to flower before we could escape. If anything, I'm sure that's all they'll remember."

John blew out a noisy breath. "I hope so. Was the fire hot?"

"Very. Even the bricks were burnt."

"Good. It's unlikely any bones would be recognizable," he hoped. He knew from experience how hot a fire had to be in order to reduce a human body to ash. And, since no one had come forth in the intervening year with any accusations, it seemed likely they would get away with it. Besides, Lestrade would have warned him, had he heard anything in the station.

Harriet slipped her arms around his waist and hugged him tightly. "Thank you for being my little brother."

"I didn't do anything," he said, holding her equally tight. "I wasn't there when you needed me."

"You are now," she said, with one final squeeze. 

"Yes, I am. Think you can get some sleep?"

"With any luck. Good night, John."

Once she was gone, John fell back into his bed with a groan. Of all the things she might have said, this was far from being on the list. Well, what was done, was done. He would have to ask Clara if her husband had any relatives who might enquire as to his whereabouts. Surely, though, after a year, someone would have come forward...wait! Oh, he was panicking for nothing! John rolled over and laughed into the pillow in relief. Clara was a year and bit in to the story she had told him when they first met; her husband was travelling out west in search of new business connections, and wasn't expected back for some time. In this country it wasn't necessarily unusual for a man to disappear and turn up years later, fortune made. 

Shaking his head in bemusement, John cocooned himself under the covers and waited for dawn to break.

In the end, John managed to fall asleep for a couple of hours. He was rudely awakened when Hartwell jumped on the bed, giggling like a teeny tiny madman at the joy of waking up his uncle for 'beckfis'. Of course, John could only retaliate with tickles and blown raspberries, sending Hartwell away when his shrieks of laughter threatened to deafen everyone in hearing distance. Happily, this served to brighten his mood for the day, and once dressed, he headed down to the kitchen in hopes of a big meal.

Lestrade had already eaten and left for work, but Holmes was there, drinking coffee and nibbling on toast. Surprisingly, neither Harriet nor Clara were fussing over him. The two of them sat at the far end of the table, helping Eliza with something on a slate. Strange, given Harriet's confession, that both women seemed perfectly at their ease with Holmes. Even Jingle was relaxed, and that was...odd. 

"Good morning," John said, taking his usual spot closest to the stove. Clara gave him a tremulous smile, and seeing her in that pale violet day dress, her dark eyes liquid with growing tears, John felt his heart jolt. 

"It is, isn't it?" 

"Yes..." he murmured, busying himself with sugar and cream for his own cup of coffee. He stirred, took a sip, held the cup out in surprise. "What is this?"

"A concoction of Mr. Holmes," replied Jingle, putting another plate of toast on the table along with a dish of dark brown paste that smelled like chocolate. "Coffee and chocolate mixed together, thinned with milk and sugar. "

John indicated at the little dish, which Holmes was busily scraping at with his knife. "And that?"

"Butter, chocolate, and sugar," Holmes answered. "For putting on toast, biscuits, or sgonns hot from the oven."

"I think I'll leave you to it."

"Oh go on, John, the coffee and chocolate is delicious!" said Harriet, eagerly indicating for more with her own empty cup.

The idea did not appeal, but he did so at her request and had to admit it was not as horrible as it sounded. Toast, being a perfect food in and off itself, needed nothing but butter or cheese, in his opinion. Or a smearing of mustard with ham and tomato, maybe a hot curry sauce, or preserved fish.

Jingle gave him a plate of bacon and beans fresh from the pot. He dug in, shook his head at the delicious flavour of salty, sweet, and fatty beans. "You've outdone yourself, Jingle."

She looked at him doubtfully. "Just beans, nothing special."

"Well, they're amazing today, whatever you've done with them," he another bite. "Ladies, what will you be up to this morning?"

"We're taking the children for a drawing lesson in Cambridge with Miss Agnew," Clara said, smiling down at Eliza. "Would you care to come?"

"I'm afraid Dr. Watson is already engaged," interrupted Holmes, clearly contemplating having either more coffee or more toast. He went for the jug.

"Don't drink it all," cautioned John, wanting more despite himself.

"Oh ho, a hit," muttered Harriet, not very quietly.

John and Harriet bickered some more before Clara had enough, leaving John alone with Holmes. But, after a single glance at the tone of Jingle's back, John retired to the privacy of his office, Holmes in tow.

"I must say, Watson, I am surprised your sister's relationship does not bother you." began Holmes, giving John the kind of look that often started fights.

"Oh?" John said in the most neutral voice he could manage. 

Holmes hesitated only very slightly. "Ye-e-s. Most men would not be so tolerant."

"She's my sister," John bit off the rest of his comment. Holmes had yet to say anything negative. However, while they were both there - "and she told me what you said about Clara's husband."

Holmes paused in the middle of seating himself, then completed the movement. "Nothing anyone else couldn't deduce, though they're all idiots. By which I mean, you have no need to fear on your sister's behalf, or Clara's. Or should I call her something else?"

John smiled thinly. "One word and I'll make sure you regret it."

"You could try," offered Holmes. 

"Don't press the issue," John turned to his desk and shuffled the sheaf of paper, aligning the edges precisely. "Now, where should we start, today?"

"Ah, that, yes," Holmes rose abruptly. "We return to Mrs. Camera's lodging. I've spent months infiltrating the area, but for today I'll be going as myself, as will you."

"Too right I'll be going as myself, that's how they know me down there."

"Oh? Of course!" Holmes shook his head. "That's why you showed no fear, why no one bothered us that night and morning. Oh, there's always something. I should have brought you in from the very beginning."

"Well, now we can start again. What are we looking for, once we get there?"

Holmes began to pace back and forth. "Evidence of Moriarty. In particular, anything Irish - "

"Oh come on!" John threw both hands up. "We're going to the docks, there are heaps of Irish about!"

"Gangs, Watson. Tell me who the gangs are in the area."

"Don't you already know?"

"Of course," Holmes replied. "I want to make sure you do, as well."

 

~*~

 

India Wharf was bitterly cold. The wind off the ocean was steady, and while the sleet had stopped, the sky was still grey and hanging heavy over the harbour. John greeted his regulars, noted them eyeing Holmes in his handsome coat and gloves, saw them pricing the cost of his hat, wondering at the size of his stout leather boots. It appeared most of them respected John, however, as they made no move to follow. He smiled slightly to himself, remembering the first time he had come down here for a patient home visit. The state of Mr. Keelan's flat had been atrocious, little more than a room and no better than John's old garret in London. And that place had been a tip, but all he could afford on his pension. Just thinking about the garret made his stomach clench. He was not there now, and never would he go back to those kind of living conditions ever again. Still, the lowlifes in the area had tried it. Thinking he was not observant of the area on his way out, trying to steal his bag and his cane - he wished he had it with him, he could beat any miscreant off with it and they had ended up well bloodied in the attempt. So had he, yet he was markedly none the worse for it. The same could not be said of the lad dragged off into an alley by his compatriots, or the knee he had destroyed with one well placed kick of his foot, or the elbow he had dislocated. Yes, he had done quite well that night. Long might that continue. Only when needed, of course.

"Oh my," breathed Holmes as they rounded the corner, for where Mrs. Camera's establishment had once stood, there was now only a smoking, burnt out shell of a building.

Boys were picking through the rubble in the street, while a fire wagon used the last of the water in its tank, the two men working the pump shaking their heads as the stream of water slackened, slowed, and finally stopped. Several firemen were raking through the ashes at the base of the building, and John did not know how they stood it, the heat was still so fierce.

"Well," muttered John quietly, aware of pricking ears, even though he could not see them. "There goes that chance."

"Mm."

"I sincerely hope you have another source of information?"

Holmes shot John a look of supreme annoyance. "Don't be ridiculous, of course I do. We're going to visit them right now."

The 'them' in question, turned out to be a group of men of various ages and beard growth drinking at a bar in Fish Street, only a block away from Mrs. Camera's former abode.

"What happened at Mrs. Camera's?" asked John, sliding a dime to the barkeep.

The woman shrugged."Fire."

"Did anyone escape?"

"Not a one," muttered one of the other men at the bar. He leaned conspiratorially towards them, nodding over he shoulder. 'All them darkies, all the whores, everyone of 'em gone, locked in by God's grace."

"You should talk, Pal," said another man. "You went round dere as often as y'could."

Pal sniffed, shrugged. "That's my sin and no other, save the drink."

"Aye, you shoulda heard dem screamin', terrible it was."

"And Mrs. Camera?"

"That Irish bitch?" said Pal, wheeling back on his stool and nearly falling off of it.

The mood in the bar subtlely changed, leaving John to conclude that perhaps he and Holmes might be better off just asking Lestrade. His beat did not include the docks, but work got around. Holmes was intently ignoring everyone, including John, which left him feeling a little bereft of instruction.

Pal reeled up to John, breath stinking of beer and rotting teeth. "She's dead an' all."

John grimaced at the smell. "Mm. Shame."

"Nah. She was a lying bitch. Always claiming to play game when she was just the one on it. Had her little fren's come over, had the basement, had the darkies for a special price."

"Special price?" piped Holmes, peering past John.

Pal wavered on his feet, grabbed John's shoulder to keep himself steady. "Hell yeah! I saw 'em once, gagging for it, men and girls, screamin' to be used. 'Nsatiable, that's it, 'nsatiable."

With this pronouncement, Pal's eyes crossed as he slowly and gracefully crumpled to the floor, back against the bar. John blinked down at him for a moment, nonplussed, then looked up at Holmes. "You ever heard that before?"

"No," murmured Holmes, staring at his reflection in the beer. "Unusually for this part of Boston, Mrs. Camera had a fairly high level consistent level of customers from the better parts of the city. By which I mean wealthy men."

"So I gathered," said John dryly. He took a sip of his beer, looked at it in appreciation. "Surprisingly, not bad."

"We need to talk to Lestrade," Holmes hopped off the stool, impatiently waited for John to gulp down the rest of his glass.

**Author's Note:**

> I have 85k more words written that need editing and expansion. We're closed in on the halfway mark of this fic, but I still have a hell of a lot of work to do. I'm writing as fast as I can!


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